The Last
by xiiao
Summary: An argument was the last thing really shared between the two. Then there came a call, a death, rememberance, love, need, giving up and a ghost. [AU. OOC. E-Sy]


The Last  
  
By: Xiao  
  
I had this idea to write this a long time ago when my school was doing its usual Literacy Magazine deal. The thing is, I had decided this for an actual story, not a fan fiction. The other thing is, I never finished it. Then one fateful day, a couple of friends and I went on a rabid writing spree, and that's when I decided to make this what it is now. Actually, I am quite proud with the result (Yes, this author's note was written after I finished the story), considering it's one of my better, darker shounen-ai stories. But I guess I'll let you be the judge, so if you're still interested after this long, boring, probably pointless author's note, then please do read on.  
  
-  
  
The piercing lights mixed together, creating the blur of repetitive colour. The sirens screamed at full potential as the car weaved it's way through the eight o'clock nightly traffic. The tires screeched to a sudden stop, killing the burning friction created with the ground below. Only yards away, two cars shared not only the smell of burning metal clashed together, but also the wavering auras shared by two deaths.  
  
He could hear everything to clearly, the final yell accompanied by the sound of a door colliding together with it's frame like a piece in a puzzle. The ring tone filling the dead silent room with its haunting, repetitive melody. Again, he could hear their yells. Then came the sound of the ambulance's siren mixing in with the phone's ringing, the lover's screaming with their arguing and the slam of a door. It was over.  
  
The sudden pitch-black was broken by the opening of his eyes. His breathing was coming in short, shallow gasps as cold sweat fell down his temples. Next to him, the bed lay empty. The sheets lay cold, the comforter's natural state untouched. There, no body lay. He knew it for a fact; he had only moments earlier ran his hand across its surface. No one was there.  
  
'Syaoran,' he recalled without exactly wanting to. He remembered it so clearly, from the first argument to the door slamming, to the final phone call, where everything ended. 'You don't even care that this could be the last thing that happens between us?' The words seemed dead now that he recalled it. He had never intended for Syaoran to agree with him, especially when he knew that he didn't want that slam of the door to be the last thing between them.  
  
'Then maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Hiiragizawa.' He shivered despite the fact that the heater was running none stop in the house, that his blanket was pulled up to his chin, and that he was barely even cold. The tone in his voice with the addition of his last name, it brought back so many unwanted memories. Then, his voice was cold and had no emotion. He would glare at him, never wanted his help, and they had never really had gotten along at all.  
  
Silently, he turned onto his side, running his hand on his own pillow as he stared at the empty place beside him. Ever since Syaoran had left Sakura, he had been with himself. Sure, the time they were together seemed long, two, almost three years, but now that he looked at where Syaoran should lay, it seemed like they had only been together a few minutes. Even so, all the time they had spent together was nothing compared to. well. he wasn't exactly sure compared to what, but now that he was gone, those years seemed to make no difference either way.  
  
The dead ringing hours after the door slam. Looking back, he wondered why he had picked it up with a welcome. He realized that he was welcoming death with a warm hand, with not so much as a worry for what could be on the other side. They had said something along the lines of how Syaoran's car and another's had crashed into one another. The other driver had been drinking (this, he noted, was why he had never approved of Syaoran or himself drinking), and both had died.  
  
No, he could not remember the exact words that the man had said, considering the instant he heard of Syaoran's death, everything blurred. He could still feel the pressure of loss upon his shoulders, pushing with full force. He could still feel his blood run cold, and he could have sworn that his heart had skipped a beat or two. This is when, for what was probably the first time, he could feel his face get hot as the tears came.  
  
He could even feel them now.  
  
Inhale. One, two, three. He thought, his eyes shut, as if trying to block the tears from coming. Exhale. One, two, three. He knew it was hopeless, but he recalled Syaoran telling him that concentrating on numbers was a way to help you relax and clear your mind. Inhale. One, two, three... Syaoran. Had told him that. Exhale. One, two, three. It was supposed to help you fall asleep, but why he wanted to drift off into a world where the worst was still playing its jigsaw of a dream over and over. Inhale. One, two, three. Syaoran. I'm sorry.  
  
-  
  
Days had past. Of course, not with what any speed or any painkillers for his situation, but still they had past one way or another. Now, standing in the empty hallway of the house they had once shared, he had sighed. There was no way he could get used to looking down the hall without feeling that small aura Syaoran gave the place. He could no longer sit in the front room and feel Syaoran's smiles, even if they were from another room completely. The house seemed dead. Syaoran had taken it with him.  
  
Even when he looked through those pictures he had kept, the Syaoran he had known in those photos seemed to lost that special something that made he, himself, smile. No longer could he see the twinkle in those eyes when Syaoran smiled at the camera. There was nothing that set these photos apart from any others anymore. It had lost all it's shine, gleam, and hope that this was what things would be like no matter what happened. Before, time seemed to be deflected by the plastic against the photo. Now, it seemed like it was finally taking its toll. It was losing its touch.  
  
The worst part, he mused, about his death was the way it had ended. He wasn't even able to tell Syaoran he loved him before his life was taken. He could sit for hours and think of how it wasn't fair, how the last things they had said to each other had to do with some stupid argument that had no meaning. Thinking back on it, he wasn't even sure why they were arguing in the first place. He just knew that it was stupid. Looking back, he was beginning to realize that the only thing that would have made sense was to tell him that he loved him. If he only knew, then maybe it would have been better.  
  
He let a sigh escape as he pulled his knees against him. He had rested his chin on his knees while his eyes had gazed at that fire in the front room's fireplace. Syaoran had left without knowing how he felt for him. Sure, they had repeated those words so many times, but to say it one last time. It meant the world for him to know it, for him to hear him say it just once more. Yes, he had said it so many times after his death, but there was on sure-fire way to know that Syaoran had heard it. Let alone cared.  
  
Though, he had to admit, it did hurt to think of it that way.  
  
Of course, Syaoran was probably the most emotionless person you would ever meet if you just gave a quick chitchat on the street. He had a thing for having a cold personality, to most people. He did not trust well, and he was not very good with expressing himself, either. But the fact is, to Eriol, he was. Of course, it probably took more time than it would for most people, but it was worth it in the end. Syaoran had grown on him in the end. Syaoran had defiantly felt something for Eriol in the end.  
  
Not to mention that Syaoran had to be the most truthful, straightforward guy in the whole world. When he said something, there was a 99.9% chance that he meant it completely. That was, of course, disregarding his infatuation with Sakura, but he was a kid then. Sakura was merely a childhood crush. And so, to know this, he could only help but feel that maybe Syaoran did want them to be over, despite all the times they exchanged those three words. Deep down, though, he didn't want to believe it was possible. He didn't need any more pain. He was receiving enough from dwelling on the past.  
  
Every day, he looked at that nightstand on the side of Syaoran's part of the bed. No matter how much it hurt to know that his belongings would stay there forever unless he got rid of them, he refused to lay a hand on its surface. Although he, himself, was very open with what he did and what he was thinking, Syaoran was not. He didn't like people to go through his things, and thus, Eriol had never touched that nightstand. In fact, he never planned on going through his things. It was something Syaoran never really approved to him doing, so he wouldn't do it now, either.  
  
After all, who knew what was in there? For all he knew, there was enough to make him break down. There was always the possibility that something lay in its depth that he didn't even want him to see. Maybe Syaoran was holding keeping a secret from him, because if he told, the results could hurt. Again, he knew he didn't need anything like that. The pain was enough without the possibilities.  
  
Time passed slowly. He could feel those days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. With each rotation of the Earth, with twenty-four hours passing without hesitation, he could feel the emptiness slowly, but surely, moving in with what was left him. Each night he could look at the simple things that made up life; the bed they shared, the personal items he kept in the bathroom, the sword in the other room, the book he kept dog-eared and never finished reading. Everything was slowly dying off, it seemed, and leaving him with nothing to hold onto.  
  
And it hurt. Looking at the items that once gleamed slowly dying and following wherever Syaoran had went hurt so much more than before. Before, he mused; at least they still had that bit that said he was here before. Knowing that there was still that gleam seemed to mean that Syaoran was just above him, watching over him, making sure everything was okay, perhaps to tell him that everything will be okay. But now, without it, it seemed that maybe Syaoran had given up on him. Maybe he didn't love him. Though, he wasn't sure why, and he wasn't sure if that was how it really worked, he just knew that it hurt more now without those simple things.  
  
Every night it was the same. Every night he couldn't help but rerun the scene, encourage the encore of his pain. The arguing, the slam, the ambulance blaring its sirens (Though, he wasn't there when Syaoran died, but he could picture the scene perfectly), the ring tone lazily bringing Syaoran's death to his ears, him welcoming it without so much as a second thought. Remembering the last things they said to each other. Recalling those tears that he was so familiar with by now.  
  
He had to do something about it. And do something, he would.  
  
-  
  
He grunted, tossing in his bed because sleep wasn't coming as easily as he had hoped. It was barely midnight, from what the alarm clock read. Tomorrow he was going to leave this house. Tonight would be the last time he slept in this bed. Tomorrow morning would be the last time he looked at the items that were owned by a certain someone. That was the plan, as simple as it was; to leave the house and everything that Syaoran had left with it. The house could slowly die and lose everything that had once meant something, but he would not be there to experience it. The things that made him remember what hurt him the most would stay. He would not.  
  
He mused that this was for the best. He didn't need all the pain that he was experiencing. And anyway, without that shine that Syaoran gave everything, he was sure that he was gone completely. Maybe back then he was barely about his head, unseen, but definitely onto heaven or some other place of unknown. Now, he was sure he was gone forever, and seeing the nothing in everything forced him to recall the fact that Syaoran was gone.  
  
Basically, since Syaoran was gone, he would also leave.  
  
And with that, he was able to fall into an almost comfortable sleep for the next six hours.  
  
-  
  
The clock's neon letters brightened as it brought up that annoying tone, signaling that it now time to rise and shine. Rise, he could do. But shine, yes, that was another story. He grabbed his glasses groggily off his nightstand and set them on, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness. Yawning, he remembered that today was the day. Today he would leave.  
  
Sighing, he pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Glancing around, he could feel his heart stop. His eyes had stopped on what looked like a figure standing a left of the foot of his bed. His body dressed in white (pajamas? He wasn't exactly sure what he was wearing, just that it was white), with a look of a sad-eyed angel across his face. Where the usual colour was, his face, hair, hands, lay almost transparent, white, features. He stood only a few inches taller than Eriol, it seemed.  
  
He caught his breath, staring at the figure that was returning the stare with almost a faint look of grief in his eyes. Despite everything, Eriol could place a name on the ghost within a few moments. There stood Syaoran. He had held up a hand, pointing it faintly in the direction of the nightstand that once belonged to him.  
  
He glanced to the side, where Syaoran had pointed, and then back. He was gone.  
  
His head was spinning and his heart was beating heavily against his rib cage, threatening to break, or so it felt. Without even realizing it, he was shaking, and his breath was coming out cold. Syaoran, the name ran through his head more times than he could count. Had he just seen what he thought he saw? He had stared at him dead in the eye, and looked at him with those eyes that made him feel like he was trying to say something without speaking. And then he had pointed, and he had looked. And he was gone. Why did he have to turn his gaze onto something else, he questioned silently.  
  
He wasn't scared. That was far from what he was, which he couldn't even explain. Sorrow, love, happiness, shock, confusion, longing, wanting, needing. But fear was definitely not something he was feeling. He couldn't come up with a clear explanation in his state of mind; just that he had seen the boy he loved. How could you be scared of the one you loved?  
  
But he had pointed. There had to be a reason, and so he stood quickly. Blood rushed to his head fast and he instantly felt dizzy, grabbing onto the side of the nightstand for support for only a moment. He needed to see what Syaoran had pointed to, and so he quickly moved from one side of the room to the other, where he had pointed, and dropped to his knees, staring.  
  
He wanted to question what he was doing, but could not. Instead, he just placed a hand on the wood and pulled at it gently. He had expected to find lots of things setting between the four walls of wood, perhaps pictures, letters from people, old school assignments, receipts, little things that he treasured, just normal things that people left in a nightstand drawer, but instead there was on a letter. Across the pale paper front, he saw his named dashed elegantly in the center.  
  
Hands trembling slightly, he picked it up and sat down on the bed, opening it with care, slowly. It was so awkward, reading through something Syaoran had kept there, especially when he knew that Syaoran usually kept things to himself. But something about that letter made him want to open it. And so he did, pulling out a crisply folded sheet of college-ruled notebook paper, with black ink scribbled on the front side. The letters was so crisp, new, and exactly like Syaoran's penmanship. Silently, he ran his eyes across the words.  
  
'Eriol.  
  
Don't leave. I'm sorry that things ended so abruptly. I'm sorry that you thought I hated you when I left the house after that stupid argument. I'm sorry that you have to endure the pain that you are experiencing by staying here, but you can't leave. There's too much we shared to be abandoned. I promise things will get better. And please don't think that I hate you, or that I ever did, because that is a lie. I love you, I promise you that. Please try to be happy without me. You deserve that. You deserve so much. Thank you for everything you did for me. Everything. Please don't be upset. I didn't mean the last things I told you before I left this house. I love you.  
  
Syaoran.'  
  
He stared at the paper in disbelief, running his eyes over the paper again; he forced himself to take down the information. His head felt like his head was spinning as he looked in the corner and saw that it was marked the exact date, and even the time read six o'clock AM. He shut his eyes, and took in a deep breath, trying to stop himself was crying, but opened to look again. The letter that he held in his hands now read, at the very end of the paper, 'I'll always watch over you.' 


End file.
